


Not on the plants, dear, we’re British (NOW WITH ART!)

by GayDemonicDisaster (scrapheapchallenge)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), British Slang, Crack, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Crowley.exe has stopped working, Frustrated Crowley, I'm Going to Hell, M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Not ashamed but I probably should be, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Random but real British Expletives, Sad Wank, Shameless Smut, Smut, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, This Is STUPID, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Why Did I Write This?, angry wank, comedy porn, crackfic, crowley has a wank, fuck it I'M cursed, ngk, not on the plants dear we're British, this fic is cursed, wank, wanking, what the fuck am I doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:07:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22203073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapheapchallenge/pseuds/GayDemonicDisaster
Summary: Crowley has a sad/angry wank and takes out his frustration on his plants. Literally.(I dunno, I struggled to find a title for this pile of excrement.)A drunken ExMarks very kindly did ayoutube readingof my atrocious fic, enjoy, I did!JuliaJekyll*ALSO* did aPODFICMiel_Petiteillustrated my chaotic comedy of NSFW nonsense, and the uncensored version of this gorgeous image is available via a link at the top of hertumblr. It is DEFINITELY worth it, trust me!FYI the title came from "No sex please, we're British", an obscure old comedy.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Gabriel & Sandalphon (Good Omens)
Comments: 279
Kudos: 360
Collections: Crack Fic Comedy Porn, Hot Omens





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IneffableAlien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableAlien/gifts).
  * Inspired by [These Are a Few of My Least Favorite Things](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22125373) by [O Lord Damn This Alien (IneffableAlien)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableAlien/pseuds/O%20Lord%20Damn%20This%20Alien). 



> So this came about from [ THIS thread](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/273671956) with [ExMarks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExMarks/pseuds/ExMarks) and [ IneffableAlien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableAlien/pseuds/IneffableAlien) regarding her absolutely bonkers comedic masterpiece which began as a parody of everything that people hate to read in a GOmens fic, turned into a self-roast, and then consensual roasting of other writers, including myself. 
> 
> It devolved into a side-track after a comment on one of the facebook GOmens groups where she dared me to put an ineffable character in a Borat Mankini. And then suggested instead the crocheted snake, which led to [ THIS chapter ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22125373/chapters/52987312) (read at your own peril.)  
> And SOMEHOW in that entire chaos of uncontrollable laughter and me losing the ability to breathe temporarily (asthma sucks) she nearly killed me goddamnit, I was dared to write something involving Crowley having a sad wank at his plants in some kind of peverse power play to intimidate them.  
> I know, I know, don’t ask me, I don’t know either. I’m just here for the ride. So here we go. Brace yourselves, I’m going in dry…

Crowley sighed as he shut the door of his flat behind him and leaned against it heavily, head on his chest. Fucks sake.

That goddamned angel and his eating habits. He’d just _sat_ there, licking cream off his spoon with that orgasmic look on his face, _moaning_ , that pink tongue darting out and slurping up the thick white cream whilst making _direct_ fucking eye contact (ok, sunglasses contact) with Crowley acting _innocent_ as if he wasn’t doing it on fucking _purpose_. Crowley had nearly exploded in his trousers where he sat.

In his effort to keep his hand away from his crotch, Crowley had scrunched the table cloth up so hard in one hand that a wine glass had fallen over, fortunately it was empty. He hadn’t been able to stand up from the table for at least ten minutes whilst he thought of the most boner-crushing images he could imagine to make his aching hard-on subside. Starting with Gabriel eating out Sandalphon’s arse and working his way up from there.

Crowley lifted his head and glared through to the plant room. He needed to let off steam. Time to swear at something. They responded best when he was in a foul temper, it was a shame to waste it.

Stalking through to the next room he picked up the plant mister and made his way from pot to pot, angrily spritzing the foliage and examining them for signs of wilting or leaf spots whilst grumbling under his breath at them.

“Fucking cock tease. I swear he’s doing it on purpose. He fucking _knows_. I swear he does. And then I try to say something even vaguely like an invitation to a bit more closeness and he’s off on a sodding tangent or behaving as if he didn’t just fellate a fucking teaspoon right in front of me.”

He couldn’t keep his mind off the image. Well, that and the stored mental images of pretty much every meal he’d ever shared with the angel, going right back to those damned _oysters_. Oh fuck, the _oysters_. He groaned at the thought, watching Aziraphale slide them down his throat with groans of pleasure. The bloody things even _tasted_ like ejaculate for fucks sake.

He glared at a wilting leaf. It wasn’t gone yet, it still had a chance at redemption, but the plant was on thin fucking ice. He grabbed the edge of the pot and tipped it closer to his face, hissing dangerously low into the foliage. “And if you don’t want to end up shredded into a fucking salad and served up to the goats over on the East Hale Allotments, you’d better sort that leaf out pronto, matey.” He let the pot sway back into place again with a vicious snarl.

Crowley’s eyes flicked to the small potted peach tree in the corner and that didn’t help one bit. He remembered the time he’d given Aziraphale some of the peaches to eat from his own tree the first time it fruited. There should be a law against how the angel had slurped into the fruit that day, juice running down his chin and over his hand, then licking it off decadently. Crowley had almost wanked himself into a fucking coma that night.

His mind flickered to the first time he’d seen the angel eat a _banana_ and Crowley’s jeans became rather too tight in the crotch region. He hissed gently under his breath, before remembering the first magnum ice cream. Oh _fuck_. The _magnum_. Holy hellfire. Crowley groaned and gritted his teeth, head tipped back to stare at the ceiling, trying and failing to think of something, _anything_ else.

Nope.

It wasn’t happening.

Sad wank time it was, then.

He dropped the plant mister and unzipped his jeans, roughly shoving them down to his knees and letting his cock spring out, aching for action. He spit into his hand for a bit of extra lubrication and ran his thumb over the bead of precome at the tip, smoothing it over with a shudder, before gripping firmly and pulling in long hard strokes with a groan.

He glared at the plants around him, daring them to comment.

“Don’t look at me like that, you bastards.” He growled.

“You’ve seen what he’s like for fucks sake. It’s not my fault, he could make a fucking _statue_ get a hard-on.” His eyes flicked sideways to the sculpture of the angel and demon ‘wrestling’ down the hall. Yeah.

“Besides, you twats get more action than I do, all that bloody pollen. Right little fucking orgy in here every spring isn’t it? Gets right up my nose, too.” Crowley grunted and his hand pumped faster. “Fucks sake, you bastards getting your pollen all over me – that’s sexual harassment that is, sodding plant jizz. Haven’t you leafy little cockwombles got anything better to do than involve me in your sordid sex life too?”

Crowley fucked into his fist with wild abandon and gritted his teeth, face locked into an angry rictus. His golden eyes locked onto the wilting leaf of the offending plant before him. “Well let’s see how you twunts like it then shall we?”

He grunted and orgasmed, aiming directly at the plants, shooting a spurt of sticky white come over them in an impressive arc, leaving himself gasping.

He stared down at himself in disgust.

“What the fuck did I just do?”*

He wiped his hand on his shirt, then pointed it threateningly around the room. “Let that be a lesson to you bastards. And if ANY of you breathe a fucking word of this to _anyone_ , I’m buying a sodding pet goat and keeping it in here until the lot of you are a pile of shit on the floor.”

* * *

** NEW!!! YASSSS! [Miel_Petite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miele_Petite/pseuds/Miele_Petite) illustrated my chaotic comedy of NSFW nonsense, and the uncensored version of this gorgeous image is available via a link at the top of her [tumblr](https://mielpetite.tumblr.com/). It is DEFINITELY worth it, trust me!  **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * - which is exactly what I said when I finished typing up this disgusting word salad.
> 
> Ok, come on, it’s hard to think of sufficient excuse to make Crowley wank off all over his plants. I challenge you to do better. Tag me for shits’n’giggles.


	2. Trousergeddon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SO…. Some filthy bastards demanded a chapter two. I fobbed off the first couple of requests but then more happened so fuck it… 
> 
> You son of a bitch, I’m in. 
> 
> Crowley has an angry wank at his plants, part 2: the discovery, AKA trousergeddon.  
>  **NEW:** IneffableAlien took on [**drunken reading duties**](https://youtu.be/xz_VYMeGXOU) for this one, go have a watch/listen!
> 
> ** JuliaJekyll ALSO did a (sober) reading of chapter 2 in two parts:  
> [Part 1](https://soundcloud.com/juliajekyll/not-on-the-plants-2-part-1)  
> [Part 2 ](https://soundcloud.com/juliajekyll/not-on-the-plants-2-part-2)  
>  **
> 
> *the title stems from "No sex please, we're British", an obscure old comedy.
> 
> *I added a (kind of) chapter 3 link in the end notes as part of #IneffableValentines*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, how the HELL am I going to make this one work? I had demands from people on what happens next, and I need to figure out how to work that in, like it wasn’t difficult enough just figuring out sufficient excuse for Crowley to unload his … (wait a minute, I need funnier euphemisms for spunk here… *googles*… *laughs self to death*… fuck it, I’m sharing the list: [https://thoughtcatalog.com/jim-goad/2015/09/100-euphemisms-for-semen/](https://thoughtcatalog.com/jim-goad/2015/09/100-euphemisms-for-semen) ) anyway – THAT, all over his plants.

The trouble was… that once you’d bust your nut in some weirdly satisfying way once, there was always a bit of you, a _teeny tiny_ bit deep down that, no matter how disgusted you were at the time, is constantly tempted to do it again. Because fuck it, it felt so _good_.

Besides… the plants had been fucking _thriving_.

He thought he’d been imagining it at first, but nope, starting with the wilty-leafed little twatwaffle who took it right to the face, metaphorically speaking, _all_ of the little tossers were greener and healthier than ever. Huh. Who’d have thought it?

Not that he was trying to find an excuse to do a repeat performance, nope, not at all.

Nah.

Unless…?

No.

He put down the plant sprayer and slunk from the plant room. He had places to be. He shrugged on his jacket, donned his shades, grabbed the keys to the Bentley off the hook, tossed them in the air and caught them as he walked out the door.

There was a table at the Savoy with his name on it.

* * *

“Crowley my dear boy, how are you?” Crowley grinned and drew up a seat, lounging back and catching the waitresses’ eye with a subtle nod as he did. She knew him of old and no sooner had she spotted Crowley she’d already started moving across the floor, wine list in hand ready, with a smile.

“Not so bad, Aziraphale, any news?” The angel was already sipping at a cup of Earl Grey tea, and shook his head, smiling.

“Not especially, I just thought it’d be nice to check in with you, as it were. Stay abreast of current temptations you may have afoot, the usual. Any I can, ahem, lend a hand with, perhaps?”

Crowley grunted noncommittally, and passed the wine list back to the waitress again. “Just the usual please, thanks.” He looked back to Aziraphale. “Nothing big to be honest, not much call for any… arrangements… at the moment thanks. I’ll let you know though.” He tried not to allow his mind to wander down the road of connotations of the angel asking if he could _lend a hand_ with anything of Crowley’s, glancing at said, soft, delicate hands on the tablecloth as he did. No, don’t even go there.

Aziraphale ordered the foie gras Torchon with red onion marmalade and toasted brioche for starters, whilst Crowley stuck to the Aquitaine caviar “St. James’s”, as something small and light, not that he hadn’t been tempted by the steak tartare and confit egg yolk with game chips. At least the angel couldn’t make a jumped up pâté on toast look too pornographic. Well, he hoped not anyway.

For the fish course Aziraphale selected the Savoy Grill Plateau de fruits de mer. The waitress smiled at him “That dish is for two, sir?” Aziraphale nodded happily and beamed at Crowley. “You’ll join me, won’t you dear?” Crowley nearly swallowed his tongue.

It happened.

“Ngk”

 _FUCK_ , he screamed internally. For fucks sake why couldn’t he go one sodding day without losing control of his own vocal chords? But _oysters_ again, _seriously_ , Angel? Oh fuck. No. He was doomed. _DOOMED_.

His lack of an articulate response led Aziraphale to nodding happily at the waitress in assent and her bustling off toward the kitchens before Crowley could do anything to stop her, before he could marshal his thoughts in to an actual coherent reply to halt this impending train wreck of visual innuendo.

He hadn’t actually planned to eat anything else for the rest of the day, except perhaps a little light consommé to keep Aziraphale company whilst he ate, but now he’d been shanghaied into _SHARING_ a seafood platter with him, one containing those sodding _oysters_ of all things. His cock was not going to survive the memory of this later. Hell, he was barely going to be able to survive the rest of the dinner without something horrible happening in his underwear. Like a spontaneous nuclear explosion, possibly.

You heard it here first, folks, Armageddon two, coming to a restaurant near you, courtesy of one horny demon whose cock achieved thermonuclear meltdown in sheer sexual frustration. What a way to go.

Aziraphale was sipping his white wine delicately and smiling far too softly over the rim of the glass at Crowley, who studiously studied his fingernails as if they were the most important thing in the universe. He became dimly aware that a question had been asked of him. “What was that, Angel?”

“I said, wouldn’t it be nice to go to the new exhibition in the reading room at the British Museum, Crowley? I can get hold of tickets for both of us, I have a friend, another book dealer, who works there, I’m sure I can pop by his office later and pick some up for us.”

Crowley nodded, distractedly “Mm-hm, sure. Sounds good, whatever you like, Angel.” He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the article of his impending demise gliding toward the table borne on the hand of the waitress who was smiling too fucking wide for his liking. She was in on it too, he was sure. I mean she’d seen them there often enough and it couldn’t have escaped her notice how Aziraphale went about consuming every dish as if making love to his fork. For all he knew, the kitchen staff were taking bets on how soon before Crowley had a heart attack in front of them at the sight. This was probably comedy _gold_ to them.

She placed the platter down in the centre of the table between them, and Aziraphale’s eyes lit up with delight. He nibbled on a piece of lobster tail on the end of his fork whilst Crowley watched, rapt, from behind the safety of his shades. Next to go down the hatch was a crab leg, held daintily between thumb and forefinger as he sucked the flesh from the centre with obscene sounds, garlic butter dripping off his chin. Crowley gulped nervously, and was grateful for long tablecloths to hide his shame.

This was it, T minus approximately 6 seconds: the angel had picked up an oyster in the shell. The world was about to implode. Crowley started a mental countdown in his head, torn between closing his eyes to avoid the spectacle, or leaving them open to fill his wank bank for the next fucking _century_. 5, 4, 3, 2… _WHAT_?

“I said, won’t you try some, Crowley? You haven’t eaten any yet, here…” The angel was proffering the oyster to him, reaching across the all-too-narrow gap between them, and before Crowley could shift position to reach up and intercept the shell, he realised that Aziraphale had no sodding intention of allowing him to do so, the bastard was _leaning in to feed it to Crowley himself_.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA, he screamed internally. His jaw slack.

Which left his mouth conveniently open for Aziraphale to press the shell to his lips and pour the oyster down his throat. He swallowed reflexively.

His single brain cell went on holiday. It didn’t leave a forwarding address for the mail.

“Az… A… Azira…. Zph… ‘Z’phale…?” he stammered weakly, utterly lost.

The angel looked concerned. “Are you quite alright, Crowley? Are you choking? Oh dear lord!” Aziraphale shot to his feet in a panic and before Crowley knew that the FUCK was going on, he was being bodily hoisted to his feet from behind in the inescapably strong arms of the principality, who had locked his hands around his waist and was fucking _thrusting into Crowley’s arse from behind_.

Well he wasn’t, not really, he was just attempting the Heimlich manoeuvre on a demon he thought was choking to death on an oyster, but as far as Crowley’s libido was concerned, he was being dry humped by an aggressively strong cherub with a penchant for public frottage.

He blanked out.

When he came to, he could dimly hear a vaguely familiar angry voice yelling in the kitchens somewhere near the back. “…This pork is so raw it’s still singing _Hakuna Matata_!” Oh yeah, Crowley thought dimly, it’s his restaurant, isn’t it? He must turn up in person from time to time. He blinked up at Aziraphale bending over him with concern etched into every line of his face.

“Crowley, dear, are you alright?” He had one gentle hand behind Crowley’s head as he lay on the floor, the waitress was hovering nearby nervously.  
  
“Should I call an ambulance?” the waitress was asking. Crowley shook his head hurriedly.

“N… no, no. No. ‘M fine. ‘S no problem. Jus’ need to go home, have a lie down…” he mumbled and staggered to his feet. “Uh, thank you, Aziraphale, sorry about that. Just feeling a bit… hot. Uh, might be coming down with something, sorry, got to go…” He fumbled for his wallet and slammed a bunch of notes down on the table (even this incoherent he was running on autopilot and couldn’t bear to leave his angel with the bill), then made his way to the door, waving Aziraphale off as he went. “I’ll be fine, Aziraphale, catch you later, ok? Finish your lunch, I’ll call you, yeah? Bye….”

He left the bemused angel standing alone in the restaurant and made his way to the Bentley, screwing his eyes closed and purging the wine from his system as he went. He slid his lean backside into the comforting embrace of the buttery soft Connolly leather seat and sat back, eyes closed, to draw a deep shuddering breath.

Holy _fuck_.

After taking a few moments to recombobulate himself, Crowley started the engine, put it in gear and slowly, cautiously, like a regular human being, edged out into traffic and obeyed every street sign and _almost_ every road law on the way home. Not quite comfortable enough to trust himself not to lose focus driving at his regular pace right now.

* * *

Once home, he hung up the Bentley’s keys, shrugged off his jacket, set his shades aside and kicked off his shoes, before collapsing to the floor. He leaned against the reassuringly cold hard concrete wall, letting his head fall back against it with a quiet thud, closing his eyes and trying to breathe normally.

He sat there for some time.

He got his hammering heart under control and tried some relaxation techniques, tried some visualisation, and then somehow managed to nod off where he sat for a nap, overwhelmed by the stresses of the afternoon.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out, but the sun was still up when he opened his eyes again. Crowley groaned and stiffly rose to his feet, regretting not using a sodding sofa or the bed for his impromptu relaxation session. He crunched his neck to one side then the other and stretched out sinuously, joints popping. With a grunt he ambled toward the kitchen and waved a hand vaguely toward the kettle to set it boiling, whilst grabbing a cup, spoon and teabags, still running on autopilot.

The memories of the past few hours caught up with him and he moaned with regret and embarrassment. Argh. He cringed with his entire body, balled up his hand into a fist and shoved it in his own mouth in sheer embarrassment. “mmmmmmmmggggggghhhhhhh!” he mumble-screamed around his own fist, biting down on his knuckles.  
  
(Rather looking like **this:** )

But if Crowley thought his embarrassment for the day couldn’t get any worse, he was very, very wrong.

The kettle clicked off and he poured it over the teabag in the mug to stew. A wave of the hand caused his sleek Bang and Olufsen sound system to hum to life and dispense some music into the apartment. A random rock and pop playlist that was loud and distracting enough to drown out at least some of the thoughts rampaging through his head.

Crowley waved again to turn the volume up considerably in an attempt to prevent himself being able to think. Stirred the tea once more, squished the teabag out on the side of the mug with a teaspoon, chucked it in the bin, added a splash of milk and took a grateful gulp. He generally preferred black coffee but he was jittery enough as it was already and didn’t need any more nerves adding into the equation.

Crowley paced around the flat nervously. How was he ever going to be able to look the angel in the face again for fucks sake? He’d been at least half mast in the trouser department already before he fell on the floor, he could only hope that Aziraphale had been too distracted thinking he was dying to notice anything below the belt.

Ugh.

Nope. He needed to get this out of his system. It had been bad enough watching Aziraphale wrapping his lips around the crab leg without adding in the entire debacle of _hand feeding_ Crowley a wankspangled oyster for fucks sake. Crowley gulped more tea and glared towards the plant room, cogs turning in his head slowly. The memory of Aziraphale’s body shoving hard against his from behind was not something he was ever apt to forget in this eternity. Or the next, come to think of it.

Setting the mug down with a deliberate clink on the granite countertop, he slunk through to the plant room with a scowl etched on his face. This one was definitely going to be a hate wank, no doubt about it. He paused in the centre of the room and spun on his heel slowly, sweeping the vegetation with a severe hundred watt gaze, ensuring he had their attention. He could swear the rubber plant actually straightened up slightly in an attempt to appease him. He gave the merest hint of a nod of acknowledgement in its direction.

“ _Right_ , you degenerate lot.” Crowley started, unbuckling his belt slowly and deliberately, slipping it from the belt loops on his jeans and letting it drop theatrically to the floor with a clank as the metal buckle hit the concrete floor.  
“You are going to keep completely _silent_ about this, not a sodding word to _anyone_. If any…”  
Here, he unbuttoned the top of his jeans slowly,  
“…ANY breath of this leaves this room…”  
He lowered the zip agonisingly slowly, glaring at the peach tree in particular, wanton little slut that it was,  
“…I will _personally_ drive down to B&Q, buy the biggest Husqvarna tree shredder they’ve got…”  
He dropped his jeans to the floor,  
“… And feed you into it, one…”  
He kicked the jeans off his right foot,  
“… by…”  
He kicked them off the other foot so they flew across the room.  
“… ONE.”

The vegetation suitably subdued, cowed into a shivering silence in his demonic presence, he looked down at his stiff cock, glaring at it. _This is all your fault, you bloody trouble maker_ , he thought at it. Hormones, for fucks sake, why had he been idiot enough to sign up for the damned things? They came with the corporation one way or another. At least if he’d given himself a vulva this week he wouldn’t be in the mess he was in right now. A bit easier to control if you didn’t count embarrassing damp patches in your knickers.

Before he knew it, his hand was stroking gently up and down his long shaft, whilst Green day screamed out “Longview” on the stereo. Crowley closed his eyes tight, adjusted his grip and pumped harder. _“…in a house with unlocked doors and I’m fucking lazy. Bite my lip and close my eyes, take me away to paradise…_ ” Crowley gave a half laugh at the line, he was indeed biting his lip. _Now take me to fucking paradise_ , he thought to himself.

He was going at it hard, fast and dirty, fist in a punishing death grip, and felt his orgasm building from the pit of his stomach in a hot wave of urgency, his muscles quivering with impending release, as he aimed this time at the peach tree, purely for the connotations it brought. Ejaculation imminent, past the point of no return, his eyes flew wide in shock as he heard the scuff of a shoe on the floor behind him over the thud of the music.

“Crowley…?”

“Uuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhnnnnnnnggggggggghhhhhh…..” he groaned, sticky ropes of come spurting out over the leaves in front of him as he stood there helpless, cock still in fist, blinking in shock at the image of Aziraphale standing in the doorway, mouth open, staring at him wide eyed. He had a pair of tickets in one hand. _Oh. The British Museum thing, right_. Crowley found himself remembering somehow. Oh, and ‘ _in a house with unlocked doors’_ too. He mentally punched himself in the face.

Crowley froze. “Uh…”

Aziraphale shut his mouth.

He looked vaguely disapproving. “Really, Crowley. Not on the plants, dear, we’re British.” He admonished in gentle disparagement, but without any real rancour. In all honesty the angel was gazing at what was still gripped in Crowley’s fist as if it were the most delectable chocolate éclair on the dessert trolley and he hadn’t eaten in three weeks. His tongue flicked out across his lips nervously, and his eyes flicked up to meet Crowley’s gaze.

They remained in an awkward silence for a moment.

“I’d say I can explain, Angel, but honestly, I can’t.” Crowley finally managed to say.

“Do you need to? I mean, this is your house, after all, and I just waltzed on in here uninvited. Well I _did_ knock,” Aziraphale stammered in a hurry to get his words out somehow, “…but I don’t think you could hear me over the music, and so I…” he trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence. His eyes had wandered downwards again. Despite softening, Crowley’s length was still rather intimidating.

 _Dear lord_ , Aziraphale thought to himself.

 _I’m fucked_ , thought Crowley.

 _I want to fuck him_ , thought Aziraphale.

The angel’s eyes flew wide, suddenly terrified that somehow the demon might have been able to hear that particularly un-angelic thought.

He hadn’t, but something in Aziraphale’s stance had translated it clearly enough. There was a definite swelling below the belt that couldn’t lie about the angel’s current thought process. _Interesting_ , Crowley’s brain helpfully supplied.

“Um…” Crowley tried again.

Aziraphale gulped. Now or never. Crowley looked as if he might bolt at any second.

“I mean, it’s a little wasted on the plants, isn’t it?” Aziraphale managed to mumble. “When I’m right _here_ …” His blush had turned him scarlet he was sure, but if there was a better opportunity to try something with Crowley than this, he didn’t know what it might be.

Crowley gaped at him. “Y… you… you’re, uh, right, um, there…?”

Aziraphale nodded, and took a hesitant step forwards. “I was just thinking, that, er, perhaps you might want to, share a bit of that with me?”

Crowley’s fist finally let go and his hands hung limply at his sides, which was more than could be said for his cock, which was painfully twitching back to attention again, to his mortification.

“Ngh”

Aziraphale took another step forward, then another, and was in Crowley’s personal space, breathing erratically. He licked dry lips again and swallowed. He looked into Crowley’s eyes and bit his lip before continuing. “I mean, if you want to, that is?”

Crowley nodded, stiffly, unable to produce anything as articulate as an actual word, let alone a sentence at that point.

Aziraphale pressed closer, hesitated, then kissed him.

It all went rather hazy after that point.

Especially when the angel broke off and slid to his knees in front of Crowley. Oh hellfire. That was his _tongue_?

Crowley had been right all along. The noises that Aziraphale made while eating were definitely the same as his sex noises. Absolutely. Now he knew. Definitely. Yup.

At some point after Crowley had exploded for a second time, this time down a rather willing throat, he found himself lifted in strong arms and carried to the bedroom, then laid down on his own grey Egyptian cotton sheets, where he was divested of the rest of his clothing, then lay back and watched in amazement as the angel disrobed as well.

He frankly didn’t care if this was a dream at this point, he’d take it anyway, and if anyone woke him up he’d murder them with a spoon.

But Aziraphale’s lips on his again proved that it wasn’t, and he sunk back into the pillows with a contented sigh as gentle hands skimmed over his body.

Amazing as this was, he thought, that peach tree would still have to go. It had seen too much.

* * *

** NEW!!! YASSSS! [ Miel_Petite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miele_Petite/pseuds/Miele_Petite) illustrated my chaotic comedy of NSFW nonsense, and the uncensored version of this gorgeous image is available via a link at the top of her [tumblr](https://mielpetite.tumblr.com/). It is DEFINITELY worth it, trust me!  **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, for the love of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, don't make me do a 3rd chapter. I beg you. Wasn't this punishment enough? 
> 
> Also, the random gif was Rimmer from the TV show Red Dwarf, biting his fist in embarrassment. The entire expression fit Crowley's feelings at that moment perfectly. Rimmer is also a tall, skinny disaster with a distinctive nose.
> 
> If you're thirsting for another crack fic of comedy smut in a similar vein, you can try [ "Wet'n'Wild" ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22298413)  
> Wherein Azirapahle tries a vulva, only to find it has peculiar demon-detecting powers, as it appears to get wet whenever Crowley is around. Aziraphale finds this phenomenon thoroughly confusing and decides to get to the bottom of the inexplicable manifestation. So he asks questions. Crowley.exe stops working.
> 
>   
> **NEW!**  
>   
>  **prompt 17 of #IneffableValentines is "pillow talk", have a *slightly* NSFW (rated teen and up) short of Aziraphale confessing an embarrassing story to Crowley as they lie in bed together after the highly embarrassing events of "Not on the plants, dear, we're British"[ https://archiveofourown.org/works/22501372](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22501372)**

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Not on the Plants, Dear, We're British [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23703097) by [JuliaJekyll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaJekyll/pseuds/JuliaJekyll)




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